


how long the bones of a hand would last

by summerstorm



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: F/M, Hair-pulling, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:45:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's a little awkward at first, Hanna overly conscious of something she's been doing for probably longer than she's even known him, her fingers slipping at unnatural angles into his hair. With a hand on her waist, he leans in, says, "Just do what you usually do."</i></p><p>In other words: 30% hair-pulling fic, 60% guys-who-love-to-go-down-on-girls fic, 10% Hanna-is-adorable fic, basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how long the bones of a hand would last

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the porn battle prompts "bossy," "hair-pulling" and "couch." Only two of those were mine! Anyway, the porn battle is long closed but I had this lying around and wanted to finish it. Title from [Maryann Corbett](http://andthepiecesfit.tumblr.com/post/8703054694).

It takes Caleb two weeks of making out with Hanna regularly to recognize a pattern, and by then it's not so much a pattern as a _thing_ Hanna does that he can't help noticing, that he's more and more aware of the more she does it. At first it's only a hand on his neck or his arm, used to pull him in or hold him close, but then it's the back of his head, and soon enough it's progressed to grasping his hair.

She doesn't seem to notice she's doing it, but it's not like he minds, and it would be weird to say something — the last thing he wants to do is spook her, after that situation with Jenna blew up on his face and it took him so long to get Hanna back — so he doesn't tell her.

At least not until he's got Hanna lying underneath him on her couch — her mom's gone for the evening, he didn't ask where, and Emily's studying at Spencer's or something — and her grasping turns into pulling.

He reaches back and draws her fingers out of his hair, one by one until she gets the message and loosens her grip, moves her hand to his shoulder. There's a hint of outrage in the shape of her mouth when he gets a look at her, and he's torn between laughing and kissing her again.

In the end, he settles for saying, "Do you really hate my hair that much?"

"Oh," she blurts out. She gives her hand a brief look, wriggling her fingers against his collarbone like she's just realizing they're there. After a second, she looks at him again, her chin a little higher and her eyes a little narrow. "Maybe I like it."

"Do you," he says, the words void of any inflection.

She bites her lip, and after a ridiculously long time — he raises his eyebrows at her, but it just eggs her on — she says, dropping the serious façade, "It's a little bit of both."

His voice is still flat when he says, "That makes perfect sense."

Hanna grins. "I thought so."

Caleb's still a little confused by the turn that conversation took when Hanna helpfully tugs him into a kiss with a hand on the back of his neck. He's not sure where he was even going with it — an attempt to talk about why she feels the need to hang onto him like that, maybe, why he can't remember a time he's kissed her without her steering him in in some way — but he stops thinking about it as soon as her mouth opens under his, her fingertips peeking under his collar as her body settles back against the armrest.

Before he's even had a chance to get used to it, she breathes in sharply and says against his lips, "Does it bother you?"

It takes him a second to process the question, and when he does he realizes he does not want to talk about it anymore. "No, it doesn't bother me," he says. It seems like the least likely response to prompt any follow-up; even if it isn't, he's willing to bet most people would let it go if the person they're talking to leaned back in and started kissing their neck.

But this is Hanna. "You don't even know what I was asking you," she says, and now she's pulling herself up, drawing her legs under herself until she's sitting on her heels.

"Uh," he stalls, "it doesn't bother me if you pull my hair? Was that it?"

"Okay, fine." She smiles, and it looks like she can't help it, and he just wants to stop talking about this. "But I think we should look into that," she adds, and just like that his hopes are dashed. He sits up.

"Look into that," he echoes, just to let her know how ridiculous it sounds. Hanna nods like it was a question, ignoring his tone, so he adds, "You don't want to look into that."

"I don't see why not. Do you like it? Should I pull harder? Should I not? Does it hurt, should it hurt more?"

"It's not really about hurting." He keeps his voice even, soft, angling for a segue into more kissing, because he really doesn't feel comfortable analyzing Hanna's behavior, and if they go down this road, he knows that's what he's going to end up doing. But Hanna's stopped talking and she's looking at him expectantly and— fine. "For you, I mean. I think it's about controlling what happens."

"Really, is that what it is," Hanna says. She sounds amused, which is infinitely better than offended, and she doesn't move away when he puts his hands on her thighs. "What are we—" she begins, unfolding one of her legs to fall over the edge of the couch.

"Okay," he says, and grabs her hands. "Humor me." He moves so he's sitting between her open legs, her bent knee brushing his hip, and guides her hands to cup his face, giving them a little push to urge them further back. It's a little awkward at first, Hanna overly conscious of something she's been doing for probably longer than she's even known him, her fingers slipping at unnatural angles into his hair. With a hand on her waist, he leans in, says, "Just do what you usually do," and kisses her, and soon enough she's lost most of that stiffness. Her hands tangle in his hair loose at first, but deliberate, like she is, for once, aware of the way she constantly uses her hold on him to angle his head, how her grip goes tighter when he makes her moan. He hisses at the prick of pain in his scalp, but it's not that bad, and it's not that new, and it fades pretty fast anyway, physically and from his memory.

Her knee digs into his thigh when she tries to extend her leg, and he shifts to give her some room to stretch it across the back of the couch. It's an awkward angle, though, and he's been thinking about something else for a while, so he takes the chance to do it now. Another soft, lingering kiss and he says, touching her wrists to make sure she understands him, "Don't let go," and slides off the couch, dragging Hanna's legs along so he's kneeling between them.

He fingers the hem of her skirt and she startles, her now loose hold on his scalp softening even more, but it only takes her one look at him to regain awareness. Now, she holds on even tighter, her body dragging further off the couch until she's almost lying down, sprawled out on the couch. For a second, he regrets telling her to hold on; he doesn't have a lot of room to operate in if he wants to stay within arm's reach. But it's not impossible. He pushes up her shirt and kisses her stomach, his hands sneaking under her skirt to pull her panties down to her knees, until she can wriggle out of them. There's a moment when she shies away, her shoulders burrowing into her neck and her thighs trying to press together. She's biting her lip when he looks at her, doubtful, so he waits until he feels one of her hands move toward his jaw, her thumb tracing his cheek down to his mouth.

It's practically instinct to open his mouth and lick her thumb, but her whole body seems to relax on the spot. A soft sigh and her legs are spreading for him, wider than before, her fingertips kneading at his scalp thoughtfully.

"You okay?" he says, meeting her eyes, and she pushes his head down. He lets out a soft laugh before bunching her skirt up around her hips, and then lets her angle his head however she wants.

When he's close enough, he noses at the dip of her hipbone, and she pushes him lower, mumbling, "Come on," like she doesn't mean to, like she's embarrassed to have his mouth on her, to pull him in far enough to cause that kind of contact. Her skin is warm, heat rising off and making his neck sweat, and like this he can smell her, so close he'd love to give her a break and cross what little distance is left, but he wants Hanna to be the one who guides him, so he keeps his mouth away, half open and so ready but away. He decides it was a good idea when she finally lets go: she groans and tilts her hips, nearly falling off the couch in the process, and it should be ridiculous but instead it's incredibly hot, the loss of balance and then the fact that she doesn't even acknowledge it, just plants one foot firm on the ground and tugs him closer. She moans with _relief_ at the first touch of his tongue, and then she's gone, really letting loose. She is bossy and loud, and he's recently found out she's bossy and loud during sex, too; it just takes her a while to get comfortable. He does his best to keep her comfortable when she reaches that point, because he has something to compare it to — that first night together, how nervous she was about touching him or letting him know how she felt, being vocal at all — and it is so much better when she doesn't hold back.

She isn't now, her breathing quickly turning to panting as he slides a finger inside her, soft and teasing while she grinds down on his tongue. Her hips buckle, needy, and her hands turn firm and almost aggressive, holding on so tight it's actually painful. Caleb had no idea he got off on actual pain, but the way Hanna's yanking on his hair sends jolts of feeling down his spine, and he has no intention of second-guessing what his body's doing right now, not when he has Hanna spread out under his mouth and he gets to fuck her with his fingers and hear everything she's feeling straight from her mouth.

Her words are impossible to keep track of, _oh god_ and speech-like moans blending in with comments and suggestions that sound a hell of a lot like _instructions_ — instructions on top of the hands steering his head, which is — stupidly like something Hanna would do, so he's kind of hurt but he listens anyway, giving her another finger, crooking his knuckles like she asks, and if his priorities weren't straight already, Hanna instantly coming apart with a long, long breathless moan would do it. He strokes her thighs through it, pulling his fingers out but keeping his mouth where it is, softer and softer until she tugs his head back.

He looks at her, licking his lips unconsciously, and she offers him a lazy, distracted smile and a hand up. She sits up and he somehow ends up on his knees on the couch, a shin parallel to her thigh and one knee insinuating itself between her legs. She's opened his jeans before he even registers where her hand is, and he curses when her fingers wrap around his cock.

"You're really hard," she murmurs, shoving his jeans down her thighs, and he laughs because there's really no answer to that. "Don't laugh at me," she says, and punctuates it with a twist of her wrist.

"Trust me, I'm not laughing at anyone." His voice is as soft as hers was, but it comes out hoarse and kind of embarrassing.

"Am I that—" she says, trailing off again, and reaches between her own legs, under her skirt. When she touches him again, her grip is wetter, her strokes smoother. "Maybe I could—" She gestures vaguely downwards with her head, shifting as though to slide off the couch.

"That's fine," he says, and touches his slick fingers to her mouth, slick with _her_. Hanna looks shocked for a moment, but then her tongue peeks out, and the rhythm of her hand begins to falter as she tastes herself on his fingers. "Want me to touch you again?"

She nods, jittery, looking somewhat embarrassed, and swallows when he hikes her skirt up even higher and looks down, but the second he touches her, a desperate whiny moan leaves her mouth and takes her shyness with it.

Her hand starts moving again, and his dick spurts in her hand. He closes his eyes, trying to hold back; he grabs hold of her had and pushes it down, making it press tight at the base of his cock until he's calmed down enough to open his eyes. "Okay, I'm good."

"Do you—" Hanna begins, and she sounds tense.

"What?"

"Wait, does that mean you weren't okay before? Because—I mean, you looked okay to me. Not that I was looking. Okay, I was looking. But seriously, if I'm—am I doing this wrong or someth—"

"Hanna."

"—ing? Because, like, if I am you can tell me. Or show me. Just do it nicely."

His tone is firmer when he repeats, " _Hanna_."

"What?"

"I want to go down on you again."

She bites her lip. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Okay," she says, nodding a little. "I think. Is that selfish?"

Caleb blinks at her, takes a second to figure out an answer. "Is it?"

"What?"

"Well, I'm the one asking, so if anyone's being selfish it's me," he explains, matter of fact because it's perfectly good logic, and it has the unexpected effect of shutting Hanna up. She presses her lips together and looks speechless, her eyes wide, and Caleb can't help the smile that spreads over his face. He just really fucking loves her. It's never going to stop being weird to think that, to _mean_ it, but it's startlingly true, and he kisses her to stop himself from saying it, from putting her in an awkward position. She smiles against his lips, confused but apparently going with it, and she's already spreading her legs before he even goes to his knees. He lifts one of them over his shoulder and she sets her other heel up on the edge of the couch, keeping her skirt pretty effectively out of the way.

Then she's manhandling him again, fingers at his hair like she's trying to smooth it and then pulling his head forward, gently, until he's laying her out with his tongue — and she's so much wetter than before, hot and slippery and fuck, he loves doing this — and she's rocking down hard against his mouth. She makes more noise, too, and her body stays in place but it's somehow entirely in motion, like she desperately wants to come. He keeps his hands on her thighs this time, irregularly stroking them, mostly holding on as he pushes his tongue into her, and she's cursing now — cursing before she comes, the word _fuck_ stretching into a shout, her fingers going tight in his hair like she's clinging to his head for leverage.

Before she's even let go, he reaches for his cock, still breathing her in, his mouth biting at her inner thigh.

"Don't you dare," she says, her voice unsteady.

"Are you kidding?" he blurts out, because he just got her off twice, and—

"Come up here, come on," she says, "come _on_ ," and he should maybe worry about the fact that he goes with it, never questions her, but right now — not right now. All he can do now is let her pull him up until he's sitting on the couch and her knees are on either side of his.

She's holding his hands back, pinned to the back of the couch, and for a second she just looks at his cock, just looks at it without doing anything, and he feels a little like he's going to die if she doesn't touch him.

"Can I—" she begins, finally letting go of one of his wrists.

Her fingers brush the length of his cock without giving him any friction whatsoever, and she's still looking, looking as she sticks out her thumb to rub the head, making him blurt out, "Fuck."

That seems to give her the strength to get out the words she couldn't before. "Can I suck you off?"

He breathes in sharp and grits out, fast as he can, "If you want me to come on your face the second you start."

Hanna's eyes widen. "Maybe not today," she says, and wraps her fingers tight around him, _maybe not today_ , "but—some other time?"

Caleb can't even genuinely appreciate the offer; all he manages to say is, "Sure, Hanna," trying to convey a lot more sarcasm than comes out. He doesn't even care. She knows he's not going to say no if she asks some other time, and her hand's moving faster and when he catches glimpses of her, when he focuses on keeping his lids open, she's licking her lips and still _looking_ and he can't—he can't. He pulls her in by the back of her neck and kisses her, open-mouthed because he can't manage anything else, breathing in air from her mouth, but suddenly she's pulled back and her free hand's in his hair.

She's fucking _playing_ with him, her mouth set in a thin, focused line as she tugs hard at his hair and jerks him off at the same time. When she looks at him, she looks like she's having _fun_ , giddy and carefree, and it's—it's overwhelming, is what it is. He considers closing his eyes and trying to calm down but he's already coming, her hand still moving on his cock as he spills all over it. Vaguely, he hears this surprised, proud little noise coming from her, and a little later, her voice saying, "That was _awesome_."

He's still catching his breath, but he reaches for her, stroking the back of her neck until she lets go and wipes her hand on his t-shirt. She apologizes almost immediately, adding, "Next time I'll swallow," and nearly making him choke on his own tongue.

"It's fine," he says.

"I can probably find you a new shirt," she adds like an afterthought, the words barely out before she kisses him, soft and weirdly intimate, still smiling.


End file.
